Page 70 of Pressure Head
Dave’s voice went so low I could barely hear it. “The Reverend didn’t kill himself. It was a setup.”
“What? Merry was murdered?”
“You’d better not be in a public place spouting off like that, I’m warning you.”
“I’m not—I’m in the van. Windows closed and all. But bloody hell!” That meant . . . that meant hehadn’tkilled Melanie, most likely. And his death definitely hadn’t been my fault. Relief flooded through me, bringing guilt bobbing along in its wake. This really wasn’t all about me.
“Exactly. Now, I’m not going to tell you not to mention it to the boyfriend—I’m not that bloody naïve—but you tell him from me, it stops with him, right? I don’t want to find out he’s tweeted it to all his bloody Facebook friends.”
“Um. Have you seen Phil today?”
“Run out on you already, has he? He was around Brock’s Hollow this morning, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, but since then I haven’t had the very dubious pleasure of his company. You want to get him tagged.”
“Yeah, right. Listen, Dave—did you know Lionel Treadgood’s nickname was the Boss? Edie Penrose told me that this afternoon.”
“You’re joking. Seriously? Bloody hell.” Dave swore, this time with even more feeling. “I wonder what they’re teaching them in Hendon these days, I really do. Couldn’t find their own arses with a map and a satnav, some of ’em. Right. Cheers, Tom. Anything else?”
“Are you going to arrest Lionel now?”
“All in good time, all in good time. If I arrest him on hearsay, his lawyer’ll have me for breakfast. We’ll wait and see what forensics come up with. And no going round there to ask him if he did it, all right? I mean that, Tom. That’s an order. You stay well away from Treadgood. Same goes for the boyfriend too. I’ll see you around.” Dave hung up.
I did the only thing I could think of—drove the van round to Phil’s place. I had to park it illegally, which meant I had roughly thirty seconds before I’d be getting a ticket. I swear the population of St. Albans halves when the traffic wardens go home for their tea.
Phil’s car wasn’t outside his flat, and when I rang his doorbell, following it up with the ones for all the other flats, no one answered. I swore, then ran back to the van. I hadn’t got a ticket, but I’d have traded that for knowing Phil was safe any day. I couldn’t help thinking he must have gone to confront Lionel. And he wouldn’t know how dangerous the bloke was—wouldn’t know about the second murder. He still thought Merry had killed himself.
Why the hell hadn’t he called me to go with him?
Was it because he didn’t think he needed me anymore? Dave’s warning was eating away at me like caustic soda. I didn’t want to believe Phil had just been using me—but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility, either.
I didn’t know what to do.
